I recently visited the Schiaparelli: Fashion Becomes Art exhibition during a research trip to London, and I'll admit it has taken me some time to find the words to do it justice. As a textile conservator and fashion historian, I have researched Elsa Schiaparelli, read about her influences and have witnessed her design house on the red carpet, but nothing could have prepared me for seeing these objects in person.
To understand why this exhibition resonates so deeply, one must first appreciate the legend of Elsa Schiaparelli herself. She didn't simply follow the avant-garde, she rewrote its definition. While many of her contemporaries played it safe, Schiaparelli leaned boldly into the surrealist art movement of the 1930s, creating work that was as intellectually provocative as it was visually stunning. The contrast with her great rival, Coco Chanel, could not have been more pronounced. Where Chanel favored sleek silhouettes and restrained palettes, Schiaparelli embraced the bizarre, the playful, and the spectacular. The two women famously traded barbs: Chanel, who questioned Schiaparelli's lack of formal training, called her "that Italian artist who makes clothes," while Schiaparelli, well aware that Chanel had begun her career as a milliner, returned the jab by referring to her simply as "that hat maker." She was self-taught, yes, but rather than working within the constraints of convention, she dismantled them entirely and rebuilt them on her own terms. The lack of professional training worked in Schiaparelli's favor: allowing creativity to flow without constraint.
The exhibition traces this extraordinary legacy into the present day through the work of Daniel Roseberry, creative director since 2018, who has managed the rare feat within the fashion world of honoring Schiaparelli's original essence while leaving his own unmistakable imprint. Elsa Schiaparelli passed away on 13 November 1973 at the age of 83, but the house she founded endures as a living testament to her vision.
Moving through the exhibition, I found myself increasingly moved and entirely unprepared for what awaited in one particular room. Seven mannequins, each dressed in some of the house of Schiaparelli's most breathtaking creations, stood under individual spotlights in a darkened space, accompanied by softly playing music. I walked in, saw this display and cried. The pieces needed nothing else; no elaborate staging, no interpretive props. The curators understood that these garments are works of art, and they were allowed to speak entirely for themselves.
Elsewhere, a room dedicated to Schiaparelli's perfumes showcased an array of distinctive bottles; among them a candlestick and the iconic torso inspired by Mae West, each one as considered and inventive as her garments.
The exhibition also shone a light on Schiaparelli's technical innovations. She is among the first designers credited with incorporating visible zippers into clothing in 1930, not as a functional necessity to conceal, but as a deliberate design element, running openly down necklines, sleeves, and skirts. Her buttons, too, were iconic: shaped like insects, body parts, vegetables, crowns, and mirrors, they transformed the functional into the fantastical. Her accessories, hats, gloves, handbags, and jewels, were equally distinctive, each one eccentric and meticulously conceived.
What struck me most is the elegant paradox at the heart of Schiaparelli's work: designs that are simultaneously complex and restrained. There is a quiet confidence to each piece, an understanding that true creativity does not need to shout, it simply needs to be extraordinary. This exhibition captured that truth beautifully, and I left it reminded of exactly why I fell in love with fashion history in the first place.